Sweet Deception
by Milk and Glass
Summary: A breakdown of Alex and Ava's relationship; how it changed Alex, what we've learned about him. A small character sketch. One-shot.


The reason why you opened up was because you thought her capable

The reason why you opened up was because you thought her capable. You admire strong women; but she had a vulnerability about her, the sort of delicacy that you're attracted to. You can't stand women who just need and need, but Ava didn't. She had her own strength. All she needed was for you to pay her a little attention. It was easy to be her friend; easier to fall in love.

Her face healed; her cheekbones became more prominent, but you loved her even when she was unrecognizable. It was the emotion in her eyes that attracted you most. People may say that you're an asshole, and you are, to some degree. But you're observant. You notice things about people. You were born an observer.

She became more than a friend – she became an addiction. And suddenly you were in the same camp as Izzie Stevens, falling for a patient against the rules. However, she walked away – she didn't have time to wait. Her face haunted your dreams for a month after that. You took to avoiding that corridor, for fear that you'd look up and she wouldn't be there.

It never occurred to you that the reason you fell for her so hard was because she demanded more from you. More of an emotional commitment. More of an open mind and heart. And you believed whole-heartedly that you could have told her everything and she would have taken it in stride. A pillar beside you – the woman who would look past the tough-guy attitude to the damaged, scared little boy within.

When she returned, your first feeling was one of joy. It was almost unreal – meant to be. But you should have seen the warning flag. You should have guessed that her slight stutter, her not-so-direct gaze, the way she seemed to cling to you, wasn't quite right. But you were blinded, as we all are – you missed her. The sex was exquisite; the light came back into her eyes. You realized that underneath it, the uncertainty – you loved her. And when she left, you couldn't wait for her to return, even if it was unlikely. She was a desperate housewife with a baby. She was only looking to scratch an itch.

And then, she came back again. This time, she was different. Shaky, not so confident. Needing you. And you felt yourself pulling back – it wasn't as healthy, not just a relationship between two independent people, but something desperate. There was something under the surface. Yet, you protected her. You folded her body into your arms – you kissed her soft forehead, inhaled the scent of her hair. And you ignored what was right in front of you – someone who was well-adjusted and pursuing an affair would not be sobbing into the pillow beside you when she thought you were asleep.

The months passed. You pushed her to the back of your mind. You moved on.

When she appeared in the waiting room of the hospital, you nearly exploded. Why was she teasing you like this? But you couldn't be angry – because she was pregnant. And she was shaky, white and wan, barely able to stand on her own two feet. But she smiled and the colour flooded back into her face. How could you turn her away? How could you decide that it wasn't worth trying to save whatever you had?

They warned you. They shunned her. Your friends didn't understand, this woman with the beautiful eyes – with the gentle smile. And when it appeared that she wasn't pregnant, after all – after the labs came back, and she didn't realize it – that's when the nagging feeling surfaced. She wasn't strong, dependable or independent. She wasn't the woman she had made herself out to be.

Instead, she broke.

It would have been so easy to walk away at this point. So easy to just leave, and avoid, and give everyone an extra week of asshole behaviour to get over it.

But you didn't. Instead, you took her home, thinking that time with you – time in your arms, close to you, would help her.

She shut down. She closed her eyes in the car on the way home; you carried her into the house, feeling her light frame against yours, kissing her hair and feeling her curl into you. And then she slept while you fiddled with utensils in the kitchen and tried to forget your past. You occasionally checked on her, watching her sleep, her blue eyelids fluttering and her breathing shallow and rhythmic.

When she woke up the next day, her eyes seemed almost back to normal, for a split second, until she began to cry. And you realized, as you helped her out of bed and into the bathroom – as you waited for her on the other side of the door – that this was not ever going to be okay.

She couldn't eat. You fed her by hand. You sat her on the couch as you went up to find clothing for her in Izzie's room and discovered that her side of the bed was soaked. When you went back downstairs, you half-expected her to be sitting, a crystal glass of bourbon in her hand, but the image was different – not the one burned on your brain.

She wet her pants. She cried and refused to stand and couldn't walk and wouldn't eat. And it was easy to pretend that this was a bad patch – that after two days of this, she'd be normal; you wouldn't have to diaper her with emergency supplies from the hospital or slip a forkful of food between her slack lips.

It was like a second chance, to be honest. She'd died before and you'd spent the last days of her life sponging her forehead, changing her sheets and wet nightgowns, trying to get her to eat and drink. And then it happened anyway. She slit her wrists when you dared, your ten-year-old body and mind exhausted, to fall asleep at the end of her bed. And she bled out while you frantically tried to find the phone to call 911, not knowing that even if you had found it, the line had been disconnected three days ago.

And in the end it was Izzie – Izzie who held Ava's hand, stroked her hair, told her that it would be all right and that she would get help. Izzie who had insisted that Ava stay in the hospital – Izzie who had called for psych. And maybe you'd been looking in the wrong place all along. Maybe the strong woman you longed for was always right there.

Ava lay in bed, pale and small, her hair tangled, her face tearstained, smelling slightly of old urine and sweat, and you held her close anyway. Because these women don't mean to get this way. You know she never meant to break down on you.

"I tried to. I wanted to be better for you."

"Shh. I know."

"I wanted to be someone you could depend on. You were so hurt; I wanted to make it better."

Later, you would cry. Later, you would spend time on the bed where she had lain, smelling the pillow that still held the scent of her hair, remembering her smile, the light in her eyes.

For now, you raised your chin, features frozen in defiance. "You need help, Ava."

She had turned her face into the pillow, which was just as well.

You'd rather remember her for what she had appeared. Deception is so sweet.


End file.
